Torn Away
by Blue Zombie
Summary: Season 2. Hints of darker and more severe abuse regarding Craig and Albert.
1. Chapter 1

Joey's question echoed in his head. 'What does he do to you?' It seemed so raw, this question. He was so passive in the whole structure of it. Things being done to him. And that's how it was. He had no say. He had no way to stop it if he was there, like when his dad cornered him in some room and started in. If he took the belt from the loops with sickening speed and brought it down. The leather of that belt felt like it bit him, like some animal with sharp teeth.

It had been a secret for so long, but that secret was coming out. He couldn't stop it. Angela seeing the bruises that he usually hid so well. Sean and Emma coming to the conclusion that he was being beaten. He hadn't said it, but there were clues. Sean hearing the pounding and the yelling over the phone, and hearing the panic in his voice. And the train barreling down at him and it could have blessedly ended it all if Sean hadn't torn him away.

"He hits you, doesn't he?" Joey said, his voice this low kind of scratched whisper. Joey spoke it because he couldn't, but he could agree that that was true.

"Yeah, he does," he said, but there were other things. Other things Joey couldn't guess and he couldn't admit, things that he had buried so deep inside that he hardly remembered them.

The tears started, and he hadn't really cried for so long. But it had just been the longest day, one he would have been happier to have end in the morgue. When you're dead you don't feel pain and that was all he felt. That was all he had felt for so long. Fear and pain.

He cringed at the feeling of Joey's arms around him, the strong embrace making every nerve ending try to shrivel away. But at the same time he knew it was innocent, protective. So he brought up his arms and hands in a clumsy attempt to hug him back, every muscle tightened. He patted Joey's back and felt the tightening of the hug and he kind of shut down. It was overload, people touching him.

At last Joey let him go and Craig was still crying, his body shaking. Salvation seemed to almost glitter on the distant horizon. Joey knew his father hit him and so maybe Joey wouldn't make him go back. He didn't know any other things but he didn't have to. The hitting and beating were enough. And it felt so good to Craig to be let go, to not be touched or embraced or hit or kicked. Every touch was the same.

Dropping Sean off, dropping Emma off, and at Joey's house they were alone. Craig's eyes were feverish and bright with fear. What if Joey called his dad anyway? What if he sent him away to one of those group homes for fucked up kids with fucked up families? Those could be worse than prison, Craig had heard.

"Uh, can I stay here?" Craig said, and the silence seemed to be something real around them, smothering them. Joey nodded, said 'of course,' and Craig let out his pent up breath.

"Craig," Joey said, and the concern and worry were nearly etched onto his face, and Craig sat on the couch and looked down, looked at the square of wooden floor between his sneakers.

"Does your father, does he, has he done anything else?" He could feel far away. He could feel this odd disconnection to where he was. Numbness. He felt the back of his teeth with his tongue. The other things his father had done shimmered far away, at the edges of memory, where the subconscious borders on the conscious, like where the ocean meets the edge of land. He shook his head.

"No," The word was barely a word at all, hardly heard. Joey had the wrinkled forehead and lined face of a much older man. Craig closed his eyes and felt the rough material of the couch with the palms of his hands. He was away. He felt it. Away for good. He'd escaped. He'd escaped his father and he'd never go back.

"Would you tell me?" Joey said, and Craig looked at him, not comprehending. Tell him what? He didn't know. Hadn't been really following along, so he told him what he thought he wanted to hear.

"Yeah," Agree. It's all you can do sometimes. Just to pacify. It was important. Sometimes it stopped you from getting so hurt, if you agreed, if you just laid there and didn't fight back. If you closed your eyes and went somewhere else.


	2. Chapter 2

In dreams it was closer. He could feel the roughness of his hands in dreams, could feel the way the room had no air, his face smothered in the pillow. Could feel something close to pleasure before it exploded into this pain and shame, rhyming words. Some terrible child's rhyme.

But when he woke up it was gone, and it was like he hadn't dreamt at all. He shook his head, the ghost of the images and the ghost of the touches still with him for the split second when waking isn't complete, then it all went away.

"Craig!" He jumped at his name, not even sure where he was. Completely disoriented. The voice unfamiliar. Then it came back. The train, the cemetery, Joey's house. He was at Joey's house.

"Huh? What?" he said, and he saw how the afghan was twisted around him, and how he was still in his clothes. He saw the gold morning light coming in through the window and landing on the wooden floor, making it look a different color from the part of the floor that was in shadow.

"Do you want breakfast?" Joey said, and he sat up, feeling stiff and sore from the couch and from the last beating. His ribs were sore on the right side and he thought one was broken. And he had a headache. Too much had happened yesterday. He rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

"Uh, yeah," He got up and went to the kitchen table even though he wasn't hungry. He was rarely hungry. But he ate. He would eat when he was at his father's house so he wouldn't get yelled at, he ate at school to have energy and not pass out, but every bite was forced.

Angie smiled at him, and he smiled back. Her dark curls were in her eyes, and she reminded him so much of his mother.

"What would you like? Pancakes, waffles, eggs?" Joey was standing at the stove, holding a black spatula, the steam from the pancakes rising behind him. Angela had a stack of pancakes smothered in syrup on her plate, and Craig saw how the syrup was dripping to the table. He closed his eyes. At his house you never let syrup drip onto the table.

"No. Just cereal is fine," he said, and Joey favored him with a concerned, puzzled look. When he had been Craig's age he could have eaten the whole stack of pancakes, and waffles, and eggs. He noticed the way Craig's shoulder blades poked at the thin material of his shirt, the hollow look around his eyes, the sunken cheeks.

"Okay, buddy, here you go," He got him the box of cereal and the half gallon of milk and watched him pour it all into the bowl. Craig took a bite like it was medicine, and chewed it dutifully. Joey turned back to the stove and his pancakes.

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Craig was sleeping. He'd set up the spare bedroom, new sheets on the bed, a new dresser, and mid afternoon Craig went upstairs.

"I'm just so tired, Joey," he said, and the look on that kid's face was similar to what he'd seen in pictures of soldiers returning from all those wars they had in the States. Exhaustion.

"Okay," he'd said, and reached out his hand to touch his shoulder. Craig shifted and pulled away slightly, and when he touched him he felt the muscles as tight as piano wires. What in the hell did Albert do to him?

Now he had to call Albert. He closed his eyes, thought of his wife. He could almost feel her. Albert scared him. He could feel his hate, because he had taken his wife and made her his own. And Albert always knew what to say, he could twist your words back on you and make you feel wrong and stupid and worthless all at the same time. He was scared of him. How must Craig feel? He could only imagine.


	3. Chapter 3

The phone ringing in his ear. Any second an answering machine would click on, an impersonal voice mail, and Joey almost wished for it. He did not like to confront his dead wife's ex-husband. Him, an adult. It always made him think Craig had no chance.

The slow ringing, and he almost hung up. Then he steeled himself, got angry, thinking of Craig shaking and crying in the cemetery, thinking of how tense his muscles were when he touched him. Thinking of the almost robotic way he ate the cereal this morning, no pleasure in it.

"Hello?" Albert's voice so suddenly in his ear, startling him.

"Uh, hi, Albert, this is Joey,"

"Joey," His name said in that distinctive, distasteful way Albert had. Joey licked his lips, thought of Craig's darkly circled eyes, his slow and stiff movements.

"Listen, Craig is with me-"

"What?" It was a chilling, quiet anger. Controlled. The precision of the surgeon. Joey swallowed hard, closed his eyes. He was almost shaking.

"Craig is with me, and he's going to be staying with me for awhile-"

"He is not," Cutting him off, everything he said sounding final. Joey shook his head, switched the phone to the other ear. Glanced up the stairs and imagined the spare bedroom, Craig asleep on top of the made bed. He could imagine the colorful bruises beneath his soft T-shirt and jeans. It was time to go for the jugular.

"Yes he is. You've been hitting him, beating him, he told me. Now I can go to the police and show them the bruises on Craig, or he can stay with me for while. Got it?" He could hardly breath, taking these small shallow breaths that made him feel light headed.

Silence. Albert was still there, he could hear his measured breaths. But silence. It stretched across the crackle of the phone line, and the ghost of another conversation that had crossed the wires somewhere held sway for a second and was gone. Joey touched the wall for support.

"Okay," Defeat. He could almost feel the deflation of his ego, the weighing of two unpleasant options. Albert was a strong personality, and even Joey could feel a twang of guilt for going against him.

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In deep sleep it was closer. Rough hands. The bed, the floor, normal everyday things suddenly trapping him. His father's voice, younger somehow. The roughness of the beard stubble, like sandpaper, like razors, hurting him.

At first the gentle shaking seemed a part of the dream, and he recoiled. Tensed. Tension singing through his nerve cells, synapses all firing at once. He pulled away, curled up into himself. And his name, he first heard it in his father's voice.

"Craig," his father's voice, and he was in trouble, he was bad.

"Craig," A slight shake and the voice changed, became familiar but not a part of such early memories. He rolled over and opened his eyes. It was Joey. Only Joey.

"Hmmm, yeah?" Craig said, blinking sleep from his eyes. The light out the window had changed, was duller but more gold.

"It's supper time, buddy. Okay? Are you hungry?" Joey had stopped shaking him and wasn't touching him. Craig sat up. He didn't feel hungry. His head hurt and his stomach hurt. Vague, diffuse complaints that Tylenol and tums could never help. His head pounded dully, like his thoughts were little knives causing him minute injury, only harmful in its cumulative effect. His stomach was always sour, always filled with bile. He always wanted to throw-up.

"Yeah, I guess so," He followed Joey downstairs, not wanting to complain, not wanting to seem ungrateful or be any trouble. It meant agreeing and going along. He could do that. He always had before.


	4. Chapter 4

After supper Joey watched Craig carry the dishes from the table to the sink. He noticed the stiffness of Craig's movements and wondered at it. How hurt was he? How hurt, and for how long? He looked down, almost felt guilty. Had Julia known, suspected anything? Had anything even been going on when she was alive? He looked at Craig again, and he didn't seem upset. But he didn't seem not upset. He was expressionless.

He knew, of course he did. Craig knew exactly when the abuse had started and exactly how much he, Joey, was to blame for not seeing and not stopping it. He shook his head, unwilling to take on all that responsibility. It hadn't been up to him. Albert fought Julia tooth and nail for custody of Craig and he had won, what with all his money and connections behind him.

Angela jumped up, started bringing plates and dishes to the sink. She ran fast by Craig, said something to him and he smiled. Joey thought that Angela was the only one who could get him to smile.

Joey planned on talking to Craig about Albert after Angela went to bed. It was almost like he didn't want to discuss it in front of Angela. He smiled at her, his sad smile. He could see Julia so clearly in her little face. The dark curls, the shape of her nose, certain expressions. He blinked back tears. When would this grief go away? Three years now and it could sometimes be so sharp, so fresh like a newly cut tree, bleeding sap everywhere. He thought it might never go away, not completely.

He could also see her in Craig, different aspects. The color of his eyes was closer to hers, certain things he said, trains of thought that were almost identical to Julia's. Being around Craig was almost like being closer to Julia. Maybe that was why the grief had reared its head. Craig was reminding him of her.

Angela was in bed. The lamp was on in the living room, giving the room a cozy glow. Joey closed his eyes, remembering sipping wine with Julia in the cozy light. Shook his head, tasted the tears at the back of his throat. Craig sat next to him on the couch, staring at the T.V. He was impassive. Joey could feel the wall he had up. It made him almost afraid to talk to him. How could he connect with this beyond damaged kid? He was out of his league.

"Craig?" His voice sounded timid. He realized he didn't want to have this discussion, and it really wasn't such a big deal. But he just didn't want to. Craig looked at him, his eyes widened slightly, and he had that look like something bad was about to be said. It was an undercurrent of fear.

"Craig, I spoke to your father…" He watched as Craig started breathing faster, shallow breaths, and he looked away. He glanced at the T.V., at the far wall, at the edge of the couch. Joey could see how tense he was, knew that if he touched him he'd jump a mile.

"You did?" Craig said, glancing at him quick.

"Yeah, and I told him you'd be staying with me for awhile…"

"How long?" Craig said fast, his eyes looking everywhere but at Joey.

"I don't know yet, but for awhile. It's clear you can't go back there right now,"

This did not seem to be sufficient explanation. Craig's expression had gone blank, and he seemed so disconnected. Joey felt like he just wasn't willing or able to deal with this at all. He took a deep breath, thought of Julia. What would Julia do? She'd be able to reach him. He reached out to touch his arm and Craig jumped, but seemed to catch himself and looked up at him.

"Sorry," he said, but shrugged away from him, sitting just out of reach.

"Look, Craig, your father needs help. He, if he's willing to get help then maybe you can move back in with him…sometime in the future…" Everything trailing off, trailing away, and he saw the glazed look to Craig's eyes. Did he want to go back sometime in the future? Or did he want to not go back? Not at all?


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday morning. Joey was up early, making coffee, worrying about Albert. Craig and him were going to get Craig's stuff at his house. What if Albert made it difficult? Joey shook his head, listening to the gurgling and hissing of the coffee as it brewed. He knew that Albert could make things very difficult.

Angela came down stairs, her eyes sleepy. Joey smiled at her. She slid onto a kitchen chair.

"Is Craig up yet?" he said, and she shrugged. He poured himself a cup of coffee and got Angela a glass of juice. He debated waking him up. He didn't want to bother him, but the kid slept an awful lot. In fact, he'd spent most of his time here sleeping. Joey licked his lips, sipped his coffee. He probably needs it, that's all, he thought. That must be all it was.

An hour later, after two cups of coffee and three pancakes for Angie, Craig came downstairs.

"Good morning," Joey greeted him, making an effort to sound casual and light hearted. It was an effort. Craig had him worried almost sick.

"Good morning," he echoed, sitting on the couch and looking down. After only a few days with him Joey knew he probably wouldn't eat unless he suggested it to him. He had worn a short sleeved T-shirt to bed and Joey could see the faint bruises on his upper arms. He stared, he couldn't help it, but Craig didn't notice. He was still looking down, oblivious.

"Want breakfast?" Joey said, and he thought of his own family, his mother when he was little. When things were wrong she used food like a security blanket, food could smooth out all the troubles. He felt like that now, at such a loss with him all he could do was feed him.

Craig shrugged but came slowly to the table. He winced and touched his temple.

"What's wrong?" Joey said, and Angela peered at him curiously.

"I have a headache," he said, closing his eyes for longer than a blink. Joey gazed at him for a second, thought how he looked younger somehow, in some ways, younger than 14. But then sometimes he looked and acted older, so much older. The thought of going to face Albert must be giving him a headache, Joey figured. It was giving him one.

He cracked an egg and scrambled it up, scraped it from the pan onto a plate. He waited for the second round of toast to pop up. He poured Craig a glass of orange juice and shook out two Tylenols from the big bottle he kept on top of the fridge.

"Here you go, kiddo," he said, and didn't notice Craig's slight wince at the same name his father used. But he swallowed the Tylenols and ate his egg and toast, almost all of it. He hardly tasted it at all.

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Joey had washed his clothes, the jeans and blue button shirt he had been wearing that night. He'd packed a bag to run away with but hadn't put any clothes in it. This was how he was like a kid. Photo albums and CD's and his ipod and gameboy, the framed picture of him with Julia when he was about seven or so. He'd seen it in the bag with the gold frame, Julia smiling at him through the glass, through the years. He hadn't even met her when that picture was taken. He'd never known Craig as a boy that young. He felt the rush of tears seeing a moment of Julia's life he never had before.

Craig was dressed in the clothes he had run away in, and sitting in the chair flipping through the channels when Emma showed up.

"Hi, Craig," she said softly, looking at him like she wasn't quite sure of what he would do. He looked up at her and smiled, and Joey was amazed at the seemingly carefree smile, the casual greeting. It was an act. That wasn't how he had been acting just ten seconds ago. He'd been staring blankly at the T.V. or rubbing his temples, the Tylenol ineffective against his headache. He listened to their casual talk and felt a pang of pride at seeing through Craig's façade, but also he felt pride that Craig didn't feel the need to act that way in front of him.


	6. Chapter 6

In the car, the cracked leather of the seats beneath his fingers. The hum of the motor, the feel of it pulling the car along. Joey's hands on the steering wheel, lightly caressing it. The trees and the shadows, the dirt along the side of the road, the sides of houses, all slipping by easily, easily. Craig felt like he was going to throw up.

His house wasn't far. It was in a nicer neighborhood, everything polished and the lawns a deep emerald green. Every driveway was new, fresh blacktop. In Joey's neighborhood the driveways were faded blue and cracked from years of winters. In Joey's neighborhood weeds overtook lawns, cement porches cozied up to townhouses.

His house looming in the distance, the expanse of lawn, the wide porch, the bricks, the fancy glass in the door. Craig closed his eyes and felt the car still moving, felt the pull of the engine. He wanted Joey to turn the car around. He didn't want to go. Behind his closed lids he could see the darkness of his bedroom, the moonlight falling through the window, white and eerie. He could feel one finger sliding along his spine. He jerked his eyes open and Joey was pulling into the driveway, cut the engine and the car was still.

"Here we are," Joey said, an odd forced cheerfulness in his voice.

"Yeah," Craig said, managing to keep most of the shakiness out of his voice.

Joey laid a reassuring hand on Craig's shoulder, and Craig didn't move but his muscles tightened involuntarily and Joey could feel it beneath his hand. He withdrew his hand. It was hard for him. He'd always hugged people and touched their shoulders or back. He was Italian. His whole family had been very touchy, grabbing you up into a hug, kissing your cheek. It was how he'd always related, shown love and friendship, comforted. How many times had he scooped Angela up into his arms, wiped away her tears over skinned knees and broken toys? Too many to count. But Craig was different. He'd have to find other ways to comfort him.

"Want me to go with you?" Joey said, and Craig looked at the house with glazed eyes. Too many things were going through his head but the main thing was that he had betrayed his father. He'd told one of the secrets he'd never tell, he'd told about being beaten. No one should have ever known. His father was probably so mad at him. How could he face him? How could he ever face him again?

"No. I don't want to go. Let's leave,"

"Leave? Craig, he knows you're coming, he knows what has to happen. It'll be okay. We just have to get your stuff,"

"I can't face him," Craig whispered, and he turned away from Joey.

Joey licked his lips. What could he do? He couldn't force him. If he didn't want to face him then that was that.

"Okay. It's okay. I'll get your stuff, alright? Craig? I'll be right back,"

Craig nodded and watched Joey get out of the car and walk confidently up to the house. He didn't even want his stuff anymore. It wasn't worth sitting in this driveway, staring at that door he'd stared at so many times before.

Joey was trying to feel confident but he was feeling cold inside, feeling shaky and brittle. Albert had hit his wife when they were married, and he'd beaten Craig. This could end up very badly, bloody fighting badly. He hoped not. A dirty look, a cool stare, a callous word or two, those things he could take. Even a punch. It wasn't really himself he was worried about regarding a fight, it was Craig. How would Craig react if he physically fought with his father?


	7. Chapter 7

Blue sky spread over everything. Craig could see it reflected in the car windows, in the windshield. The reflections of the tree branches and the blue sky running onto the glass, and he almost couldn't tell where the real sky ended and the reflection started. Little details. The dashboard with all the little buttons for everything, CD player, heater, AC. The white leather seats with the thick thread, the head rests for each seat, he felt the leather with his palm and it was getting hot from the sun.

Snippets of memory, flashes of things like switching the channel on the T.V. too fast. Each one came and pummeled him like a quick punch to the stomach, and he moaned. The front door had just swallowed Joey up. Seems he'd been in there for hours.

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It was winter, and the light was cold, distant. It couldn't warm anything. The thick and wet snow clung to the edge of his jeans, to the bottom of his school bag where he had set it down in the snow. His father's presence so suddenly in the room, he hadn't even known he was home.

"Oh, uh, hi, dad-" The sentence cut off in his father's quick sarcasm, and he'd come at him so fast.

He could see the edge of the lawn against the black tar of the driveway, the black and green such a contrast. He drummed his fingernails against the glass.

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It was a late night. He could smell the sharp smell of vodka. Felt the thinness of the pajama material against his body, and laying on his bed he was afraid. Undefined, free floating fear, the dark seeming to press against the windows.

Bored, almost bored sitting in the car. He hadn't wanted to come. He imagined he could see his father and Joey inside the house through the windows, vague shadows. He breathed on the car window and saw the spot of fog his breath had created.

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And his wrists hurt, squeezed so hard, and he was thrown to the floor. Looking up, scrambling away from the blows that would come. One swift kick and he was curled up on the floor.

Joey came out with a suitcase filled with his belongings. He could see his father standing in the doorway, his casual button up shirt open at the collar. He had that sad and thoughtful look on his face. Craig couldn't bear to look at him, feeling guilty. Feeling that this whole thing was his fault. He thought his father must hate him. The thought made him feel cold.

"Ready?" Joey said after he put the suitcase into the back seat.

"Yeah," Craig said, shivering despite the warm day.

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On his stomach on the bed, and the belt came down. It made a sound through the air, like a whistling of air, and with that sound Craig could see the arc the belt would make as it swung down. He'd been fighting, maybe struggling at one point but by this time he'd given up, and the belt would hit his skin with the sharp sting. He'd squeeze his eyes shut and suck in his breath, afraid to move.

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"Snake, Jesus, has this been stressful," Joey said, popping open a beer. Snake tipped back his bottle of beer and nodded.

"Where is he now?" Snake said, tugging at the edge of the label on his bottle.

"He's asleep. He's always asleep. He doesn't eat all that much. He's so tense, I mean, you can just see it. I think more is going on," Joey said, and swallowed nearly half his beer in one swig.

"More? What do you mean, more?"

"I don't know. He's pretty screwed up…I don't know. I just feel like there's something he's not telling me,"


	8. Chapter 8

He was in that dark place where he could almost remember, almost. Then some circuit breaker would slam down in his head and he couldn't remember anything.

He wasn't quite asleep up in his room at Joey's. Laying on the bed in the dark, on his back. He felt better on his back, less…vulnerable. He could almost remember things from his former life, dark things like strange creatures floating in some unknowable ocean.

He knew he didn't trust anyone, especially anyone older and in authority over him. He knew he didn't even trust these new rooms and new places. Didn't trust that his sleep wouldn't be disturbed like it had been before.

Tossing and turning, from his side to his back and back again. Closing his eyes and hearing his father's voice, innocent seeming words taking on some sinister hues.

"Shhh, Craig, it's alright. _Relax,_" And his muscles had been so tense, the strangeness of it all overwhelming him again. His father's voice was in his head, the whispered words in his ear. He tossed and turned, almost remembering everything.

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Joey looked at him over his newspaper, the words on the thin gray paper fading to insignificance. He liked to see how he behaved when he thought no one was looking.

Craig had a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and he picked up the spoon and watched the oatmeal drip off of it and back into the bowl. Joey had been watching him for almost a full five minutes and he hadn't taken a bite yet.

"You going to eat that or just play with it?" Joey said, his tone light and joking. Craig looked up at him, startled.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry," he said, and took a bite, chewed dutifully, and then took another.

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Snake seemed to be the only one who could possibly understand this thing with Craig, the only one who could possibly help. It was after school and Snake had come to the car lot at Joey's request. They were in the office.

"Coffee? Fresh sludge? I made it this morning," Joey said, pouring himself some and heating it up in his little white microwave. Snake passed. Joey took the cup of coffee from the microwave at the beep and stirred sugar into it, gazed out over his car lot and the young salesmen who were working it today.

"How is he in school?" Joey said, his tone and eyes worried. Snake shrugged.

"He's fine, usually. He falls asleep in class sometimes, other kids do that, too. He does it a little more. But other than that you wouldn't know anything is wrong with him. He's very social, he flirts with girls, he hangs out with guys, he seems like a normal kid,"

Joey frowned, drank his coffee. The kid Snake just described was not the kid he lived with.

"It's all an act, Snake. You should see him at home. He's jumpy, he's scared all the time, even when he is acting somewhat fine there's this fear underneath it all. I don't know. I don't know what to do or how to help him,"

Clouds gathered on the horizon. Joey watched them beyond the cars, the road, the buildings. Something about Craig was bugging him, something he could sense but couldn't touch, something he just couldn't put his finger on.


	9. Chapter 9

"Uh, yeah, I'll have some coffee," Snake said, his brow wrinkled. He thought about Craig at school, and if you didn't know any better you wouldn't know anything was wrong. But Joey had told him everything. He told him about the train and the bruises he'd seen. He told him about the crying and the jumpiness and the anger that night at the cemetery.

Joey dug a second mug from his desk drawer and rinsed it out, poured in some coffee and popped it into the microwave. Snake bit the inside of his cheek. What did they want Craig to do? He acted pretty much the same as the rest of the kids, and he had to. There were tests to take and girls to flirt with and things to do. He had to do them.

Snake drummed his fingers on the messy desktop. The flat desk calendar was filled with Joey's oddly neat handwriting and it proliferated with his sticky notes. He had once said that sticky notes were the best thing man had ever invented.

It seemed to him that the problem wasn't how Craig was acting at school, the problem was that how he acted at school and home were so radically different.

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Craig laughed as the car on the T.V. screen careened into a pedestrian. Grand Theft Auto on the X-Box was so cool. He'd had one when he lived with his dad but this wasn't his X-Box, it was Joey's. Joey was such a kid. Craig still couldn't get used to it.

"You suck at this," Sean said, and they both watched the video game blood spread around the fallen pedestrian.

"Like you're so much better," Craig said, handing him the controls. He liked having people over here because Joey didn't care and because it was easier to keep up the act that he was fine. It was easier with an audience. For some reason he couldn't keep up that act when it was just Joey and Angela here.

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"Have you thought about, maybe, having him see someone?" Snake said, sipping the coffee. It wasn't that bad. Joey bought the cinnamon hazelnuts and vanilla bean fancy coffees.

"Yeah. I mean, I've thought about it. I don't know. Maybe it would help, like "Ordinary People" or something. But what if it just makes it worse? I don't want to screw up here. I just don't quite know what to do,"

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"Sure you can't stay for supper?" Craig said, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. He was like the last guy at the bar, dreading the bright lights.

"Sorry, Craig. I gotta go," Sean said, shrugging into his jacket. Craig looked down, felt the weight of things settling down around him again.

"See ya," Sean said. As Sean left he saw Joey pull up, the red car looking almost maroon in the fading light. Craig closed his eyes and fought feeling like he was worthless. He didn't need Sean to be here. He was fine. Fine, he repeated in his head, watching Joey get out of the car and swing the door shut.


	10. Chapter 10

Joey looked at Craig from the corner of his eye. He was playing the video game, a very teenage kid thing to do. But at dinner he'd pick at his food and he'd get sleepy on the couch way too early and he'd startle when he'd wake him up to go to bed. That initial startle reflex, everything tensing, pulling away in the same motion. Joey couldn't get used to it even though he's seen it almost every day since Craig came to stay.

"Hungry?" Joey said, stirring noodles on the stove top. Craig glanced over.

"Yeah," he said, lying. Little lies every day. 'How are you?' 'Fine,' Lies. Joey swallowed and stirred the noodles beneath the bubbling water. Why couldn't he get through these lies?

Angela barreled into the room, crashed into Craig on the couch. He laughed. With Angela he was better. Happier. Joey thought she might be the only person he was comfortable around. Certainly not him, not with all his shades of parent and father and authority, dim as they were. It was enough to provoke Craig's unpleasant memories.

What were these unpleasant memories? Being hit, certainly. He knew that. Being beaten, most likely. Living in pain and fear and uncertainty. Never knowing when the next blow would come. But Joey was convinced it was more than this. What else had Albert done?

After dinner, everything neatly put away, Angela sleeping in feety pajamas under her Dora the Explorer blanket, Craig upstairs brushing his teeth. Joey could hear the stop and start of the water as he rinsed the toothbrush, heard his footsteps cross from the bathroom to the spare room he was using. Joey drank a beer in an oversized mug he got in Montreal one time, Julia laughing in the store as he held it up, told her he would get his initials on it in bronze letters. He closed his eyes and missed her again.

He went up the stairs, his mug of beer on the coffee table. He went up slowly, not sure of his purpose. He peeked into Angela's room and saw her sleeping, one arm around her stuffed bear with the missing button eye. He smiled softly, feeling the love for her barrel through him just like she had crashed into Craig on the couch earlier. He went on, down the hall to Craig's room. The door was closed. He was the only one in this house who closed doors. He stared at it, the blank wood giving him no answers.

He lifted his fist to knock, felt it suspended there in the air. He took a breath and his fist hit the wood. He heard the motion from the room, heard the rustle of blankets and feet hitting the floor and then Craig's voice, muffled behind the door.

"Yeah?"

He opened the door and saw Craig sitting on the edge of his bed dressed in flannel pajama pants and a soft cotton T-shirt. The T-shirt had a drawing of a penguin listening to oversized headphones.

"Hi," he said, coming over and sitting on the edge of the bed with him, but not too close. It was best to give Craig his space.

"Hi," he said, looking at him cautiously. Joey felt almost like he shouldn't be here, that he wasn't welcome. There was something oppressive in the atmosphere. Craig was looking down, pulling at the material of the bedspread.

"Listen, I'm kind of winging it here. But, I want you to know that you can, well, you can tell me things if you need to. Like things that are bothering you, anything," It was a weak speech, but it was all he had. Craig was looking at him with slight puzzlement, slight caution.

"Okay," he said, shrugging. Joey closed his eyes. He wasn't about to tell him anything.


	11. Chapter 11

Joey left his bedroom and Craig felt shaken, and he was shaking. He looked at his hands and saw the fine tremors. Joey said he could tell him things. Things. The word had become dark and ominous.

He laid back on the bed, brought his knees up. Joey had shut the door when he left and Craig was glad, he liked the door to be shut. He felt safer behind closed doors when he was alone. Of course the closed door when he was with someone wasn't so good. He closed his eyes and remembered the quiet click of his door, the darkness only interrupted by the street light outside the window. His father standing over him, and Craig remembered the odd fear just hovering over him and in him, and he remembered how he couldn't breath right. He could never catch his breath. He'd tried to stay so still, tried to will his mind to go somewhere else, and he could hear his own voice speaking inside his mind, 'this isn't happening. It's not. Not at all,'

He thought it was funny as his hands shook and he hugged his knees to his chest, he thought it was funny that he didn't feel all that better not living with his father. He'd thought that he'd feel better than this.

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His appetite seemed to have improved a little, Joey thought, although he was still too thin. He noticed his shoulder blades poking at the thin material of the T-shirt he wore. Eating breakfast, eating most of it. Joey silently applauded. Sometimes the least thing you could do was nourish the body.

He cleared dishes and washed them just to be doing something. The silence was here, sitting right between them like some physical being. When Angela was around the silence was not as noticeable through all her noise. Whining, crying, laughing, asking endless questions with the philosophical topspin, 'If God created everything who created God?' He had to laugh at those questions. One day she'd discover he had no clue. And he had no clue what to do about Craig. He could never eat the whole plate or bowl of anything, and he'd reached the point where he was just pushing the food around into little mountains and tunnels and plains, an entire geological landscape made out of oatmeal.

Something was so wrong with this kid that Joey wanted to shake him and demand to know what it was, what happened, what had scarred him so badly. Why did he cry in his sleep and curl up into the fetal position? Why did he move with such suddenness at any movement toward him? Why did he have that haunted look in his eyes?

He wanted to ask him things, wanted to sit and listen and understand but Craig wouldn't open up. Joey closed his eyes slowly and then opened them, letting in the light of the kitchen and the way it reflected off the floor.

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It hadn't seemed like such a big deal when Joey called and made the doctors' appointments for Craig and Angela both. A yearly physical, what was the big deal?

"No," Craig said, and he actually backed up. Joey looked at him with such honest puzzlement it was almost comical.

"What? Why? What is the big deal-"

"No, Joey, okay?" He was shaking his head. He'd backed up as far as the kitchen table and he stood against it now, holding onto it but staring at Joey.

"No, Craig, it is not okay. You can't, you need to have one to be sure that everything is alright, and with, you know, what you went through with your father…you might have some lasting injuries…" This was not going well, his sentence trailing off in broken fragments as he mentioned what Craig tried so hard to avoid, and he winced and looked down.

"It's just necessary. A necessary thing. No big deal. Okay?" he tried again, and Craig was looking down at his sneakers. Joey scrambled in his mind to reason out why this was such a big deal. Because his father was a doctor? Because he associated the doctor's office with broken bones and bruises and pain?

"Okay?" he said.

"Yeah," Craig said, giving in, his voice thick. But he still wouldn't look up at him.


	12. Chapter 12

He'd tried to argue with Joey about going to the doctor again but then Joey spoke in his firm voice, which he's heard before with Angela. But it was different when it was directed at him, and he swallowed hard and felt uneasy. The sharp look in Joey's eyes unnerved him.

In the waiting room Craig flipped through a People magazine, not caring what the celebrities were doing, not able to concentrate on the simple articles. He ended up just glancing at the shiny pictures of skinny and smiling celebrities, beaches, New York and L.A.

"Craig Manning?" a nurse called in her detached and clinical way, reading his name off the paper she held in her hand. He glanced at Joey and he nodded firmly, so he got up and followed her into the office.

There was the bed/table covered with a paper sheet, a desk against the wall and a computer with its shiny desktop icons, a scale with the weights and metal stick for measuring height. Cabinets lined another wall and he could see some of the shiny doctor tools on it, the scopes for peering into ears and eyes and noses and throats. He'd seen those things enough at his house, in his father's office. He could smell the alcohol and betadine and whatever else it was, and it reminded him too much of his father and how he smelled when he would come home from work. Late at night, hearing the door creak open and he was half asleep, the fear coming into his throat, choking him.

"Take off your shoes and stand on the scale," the nurse said, and he kicked off his sneakers and stepped onto the platform in his socks, feeling the cold of the metal on the bottom of his feet. The nurse was middle aged, round through the middle, gray at the roots, tired looking. She was barely looking at him. He was another increment of work to her.

She moved the weights at the top of the scale, pushing it a little left and then right until it balanced with his weight, and she wrote the number down. He didn't care what it was. He stood still as she measured him, reaching her hand up over her head because he was taller than she was.

"Okay, Craig, come sit over here," she said, gesturing to the chair near the computer. She sat directly in front of the computer, pulling his name up on her screen, typing in his weight and height. He watched her, breathing slow.

She reached her hand out and touched her index finger to the pulse in his wrist, and he watched her watching her watch and counting to herself. He didn't like the feeling of her finger against his skin, didn't like strangers touching him, didn't like that she was monitoring and measuring these things about him. He felt the breach to his privacy.

She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and he watched as she pumped it up, felt it squeeze his arm, he felt lost in the pressure. Closed his eyes. When she had the numbers she wanted she released the pressure and the cuff sizzled down, flat again against his arm. She took it off.

She opened a drawer in the cabinet on the far wall and pulled out a paper gown, pressed into a square. She placed it on the paper sheet that covered the examining table.

"Okay, take everything off, including socks and underwear, and put that on," she pointed to the gown, "and the doctor will be right in,"

She whirled out and Craig breathed in the thick air of the office. He could smell everything in here. Every alcohol swab and rug fiber and paper sheet. This sucked, he knew this sucked but it was just a physical, that's all it was. It would be fine. He closed his eyes but he could still see the light from the room red against his closed lids. He pulled his shirt off over his head and felt the cool air touch his skin.


	13. Chapter 13

Eyes closed while he waited for the doctor to come. Sitting on the paper sheet on the exam table, and he could hear it crinkle each time he moved. Maybe this doctor would be a woman. He could deal with a woman doctor. Male doctors made him uneasy. They all had this something that reminded him of his father. This sort of mannerism, a learned detached clinical way about them that made him feel…seasick.

He swallowed hard, felt all the muscles of his throat working. With his eyes closed he could almost forget where he was.

Logically he knew nothing bad was going to happen. Logically he knew that once the doctor showed up it would go quick, and be over.

He eyed his clothes folded neatly on the chair. His clothes protected him. He was safe inside of jeans and the layering of shirts. Safe. Logic. Both things were just draining away.

The waiting stretched out, the red minute hand on the clock floating by the numbers dozens of times. Maybe the doctor would be called away, some emergency, and they'd have to leave. Maybe that could happen.

He heard a knock on the door and then it opened. Craig stared with wide eyes at the doctor, a man of average height and hard to determine age. Maybe 40's. Maybe older.

"Hi, Craig," he said, "I'm Dr. Miller,"

Craig nodded in response, his nose filled with the smell of alcohol swabs and medicine. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

The doctor had an easy smile, smile lines around his eyes. He seemed laid back. That wasn't anything like his father. Craig tried to feel relief in that. This man wasn't his father. Just because he was a doctor, too, it didn't matter. This wasn't that. He tried to keep it in mind as the doctor examined him, but it was hard. He couldn't keep his muscles from tightening up at every touch. He couldn't keep from jerking away when the doctor went to touch him. He couldn't even really hear him, his voice sounded distant, far away. It was his father's voice that was closer, and the words and tone his father had used were very close to what this doctor was saying, the way he was saying it. That was some doctor thing. All that training. All those years of seeing patients, it caused this similarity that Craig found unbearable. He could hear his father, his words a light overlay. _Relax. This won't hurt. Only for a minute. _Craig squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if it would ever end.

"Craig,"

"Yeah?" He felt snapped out of it at his name, opened his eyes, let the muted light of this doctor's office filter in.

"Why don't you get dressed, and then I'd like to come back in and talk to you for a minute, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, and watched Dr. Miller leave. When the door latched shut he got his clothes, felt the easing of tension as he put them back on.

When the doctor returned Craig was fully dressed, sitting in the chair by the side of the desk, tapping his fingernails on the wooden armrests.

"Craig, who do you live with?" Dr. Miller said, a careful look of concern on his face. Craig cleared his throat.

"My, uh, my step-father and my little sister,"

Dr. Miller nodded.

"Okay. Have you always lived with them?"

"No,"

Dr. Miller looked at Craig, at his eyes that flicked from side to side, his tapping fingernails, but other than these signs of distress his face was carefully neutral. He wasn't about to give up any additional information, Dr. Miller could tell.

"Where did you used to live?"

"With my dad,"

"Why don't you live with him anymore?" Dr. Miller said.

Craig gazed at the doctor for a second and then he looked at the window, at the narrow plastic Venetian blinds that covered it, at the wooden windowsill. He shrugged, a slow thick gesture.


	14. Chapter 14

Craig was in the waiting room with Angie, watching her push some toys around, his arms on the wooden armrests of the chair. The doctor had wanted to talk to Joey…alone. Craig bit his bottom lip.

Joey felt the free floating anxiety that had become so common with him since Craig moved in. Craig wasn't okay, that's what this was about. He'd tried to tell himself he was, tried to act like he was, but here was a professional, an educated professional who apparently saw it otherwise.

"Mr. Jeremiah, I wanted to talk to you about Craig," Dr. Miller said, and Joey noticed what Craig had noticed, the doctor's laid back manner, his easy smile.

"Okay," Joey felt absurdly guilty. He tried to squash the feeling. Whatever had happened to Craig, it wasn't his fault. How could he have seen it earlier, when Julia was still alive? Could he have seen it?

"How long has he lived with you?"

"Since September of this year," he said, thinking back to the cool September night in the cemetery.

"He said he used to live with his father. Why does he live with you now?" the doctor said, fiddling with a paperclip on his desk.

"His father, he was abusive," Joey said, and it sounded so awful.

"Do you know the nature of the abuse?" the doctor said, looking up at him suddenly.

"I don't know everything. I know that Albert, Craig's father, had beat him and he ran away and tried to kill himself. I saw the bruises from that beating, and it was…awful," Joey could see it again, when Craig had lifted his shirt and showed him the black and blues, and he saw the tears in his eyes.

"How did he try to kill himself?"

"He was standing in front of a train. His friend pulled him away," Joey said.

The doctor was quiet for a moment, and Joey felt the air heavy and still in the office. When he spoke again his voice was subdued.

"I'm not an expert on these things, but I've seen it from time to time," he said, and Joey was leaning forward, "there's a possibility that he was sexually abused,"

Joey sat back, stunned. He felt cold, like there was ice flowing through his veins. Sexually abused? Had he heard that right?

"What?" he said softly.

"I could be wrong, but he reacts to things like…like kids who have,"

Joey looked toward the window, toward the examining table with it's fresh paper sheet pulled tight. No wonder Craig didn't want to come here. He shook his head. Poor kid. Jesus.

"So…what should I do?" Joey said, feeling lost. If it was true what in the world should he do?


	15. Chapter 15

Joey came back out into the waiting room, noticing the patterns of sun on the floor. He had the name of a psychiatrist in his pocket, folded up and burning there, and he felt like it would burn him if he touched it. The doctor had said psychiatrists and therapists and maybe medication and maybe, criminal prosecution. His head was spinning. He looked at his two kids, one who was okay and one who was not.

Angie played with some sturdy dolls on the little table that held thick, colorful books and little bits of crayons that looked like some animals had been nibbling on them. Craig gazed disinterestedly at her, but looked at him when he came into the room, his look faintly questioning. Joey had no answers.

The words themselves had flavor, a bitter meaty flavor that he wanted to spit out. Sexual abuse. It was too terrible to contemplate.

"Let's go," he said, and he wondered if he sounded as shaky as he felt.

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He watched Craig. Watched him push his food around the plate, although his appetite had gotten a little better. Watched him play with Angie, his voice a high falsetto as he spoke for the Barbie in his hand. Watched him talk on the phone with someone, probably Sean. He seemed like an average, ordinary kid. But he knew if he made a sudden move toward him the quick jerking response, the flashing look of fear that would clear before he could register it, almost. Almost, but not quite.

Angie was sent up to bed amid her usual protests and both he and Craig smiled at that, and finally she relented to go, pecking both of them on the cheek. He listened to her footsteps on the stairs and then crossing the small hall to the bathroom, and he heard the water running as she brushed her teeth.

Joey contemplated what to do. He was afraid to mention it, unsure if he even should. He was lost in the sauce with this, not knowing how to proceed, not wanting to rip open wounds that might be starting to heal.

There was the possibility of sexual abuse, the doctor had said. But those words had rung true, and he could see that it might be true, given Craig's persistent troubled demeanor. All these little symptoms. Not eating well. Stomach aches and headaches. Nightmares. His reaction to being touched. And his reaction to going to the doctor. It added up. He thought about it further. If it was true then there were two types of abuse here, physical and sexual, not to mention the shadow of emotional abuse that was surely present. He himself had felt emotionally abused whenever he had to speak to Albert.

He knew, and Craig knew he knew about the physical abuse. That was fact. He could mention that, bring that up and maybe see where it led? Maybe. Joey rubbed his temples, feeling almost sick, a headache starting to thump dully behind his temples.

"Craig," he said, striving to keep his voice casual. Calm. It was his best approach.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, well, when you lived with your dad…" Joey saw Craig's eyes get wide, saw his breathing quicken just a little. He didn't want talk about this, Joey could see it. And he didn't know how to bring it up. He wanted to know what was best, how to help Craig deal with things. Talking about it, not talking about it? Therapy? Psychiatrists? All of it, none of it? If he could he'd just erase the past.

"When you lived with your dad and he'd hit you, was that all he'd do?" Joey said, keeping his voice and face calm, wondering what Craig would say, if he'd say anything at all.

Craig looked down, pulled at the fabric of the couch.

"No," he said slowly, not looking at Joey, "he'd kick me, punch me, throw me down. Strap me," A numbing list, but no mention of any other sort of abuse. Joey wanted to believe that had been all. That that list of Craig's had been enough.


	16. Chapter 16

Craig was in his room, putting away the folded clothes on his bed. He inhaled the smell of the clean clothes, the lavender dryer sheets Joey used. Order. Order was important. All the shirts went in one draw, the pants in another. Everything neat and in its place.

Order had been an important part of life at his father's house. Everything clean, and the tyranny of that was sometimes oppressive. But it was what he was used to. He licked his lips, thinking of how some circle seemed to be tightening. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Why? What did it matter? It was over now, whatever had happened, it was over.

Ignoring was his favored policy. Just ignore things and they'll go away. Just pretend things never happened and it could be like they never did happen. Why couldn't he just go to school and come home and hang out with his friends like everyone else?

The knock on his door didn't really surprise him, and Joey entered inch by inch.

"Hey," Joey said, "how are you?"

"Fine," Craig answered, waiting.

"Listen, uh, I made an appointment for you to see this psychiatrist…Dr. Brown…next Wednesday after school, okay?" Joey looked so sheepish, so uncertain that it almost made Craig smile, except he really didn't want to go and see anybody about anything. He sighed, looked down. But Joey stood in his doorway waiting for some response. He could feel his eyes on him.

"Okay," Craig said, still looking down.

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Wednesday. School dragged, and the appointment with the psychiatrist hung over his head all day. This sucked. What if he had told Joey no, to just forget it? Would he have let it go? He fidgeted in his seat, glanced out the window at the bright blue sky plastered against the glass. Maybe he should have said no.

"What is with you?" Sean said at lunch. Craig shook his head, bit into his apple.

"Nothing,"

"It doesn't seem like nothing," Sean was looking critically at him.

"It's nothing,"

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The psychiatrist was a woman, which was good. Of course he preferred women. Like his mother, who had always been kind and loving toward him, despite leaving him with his father. He tried not to blame her for that, tried to think that somehow that wasn't her fault. Dr. Brown was of an indeterminate age, late 30's, early to mid 40's? He couldn't tell. He sat in the seat across from her, and it was comfortable. Plush, with a back and arm rests, he felt like he was sinking into this chair, almost relaxing. The whole room was relaxing. There was a fire place, wood paneling, and not cheap 70's shit. This paneling looked like oak or something, the deep tones of the wood comforting. There was a rug, a soft beige. It was nice here, he had to admit that.

"So, Craig, how are things?" she said, and he looked at the stylish high heels she wore, the way they sunk into the thick rug.

"Fine," he said. He didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to say to this stranger?


	17. Chapter 17

The room was nice, comforting, but Craig was nervous. He knew he was here because he wasn't right, things were wrong, he needed help. The thing was he didn't feel like that. He felt like he could be like everyone else, that he could go to school and hang out after school and be fine, just fine.

"What do you like to do?" The psychiatrist asked him, and he shifted in his seat, thinking how his answers could somehow, unknowingly, incriminate him. He closed his eyes and could see her talking to Joey, her voice and eyes sad, 'he's just not okay,'

"Uh, take pictures…"

She wore glasses, the stylish ones that were rectangle, thick black rims. His dad had worn glasses, too. Craig knew he had damaged his eyes doing all the reading in med school, he knew that the cliché thing that people who wore glasses were smarter was actually true, or at least they were well read. His father's glasses had been dark framed, too, but more square, and they could hide his eyes or magnify them, it all depended on the situation.

She had asked a question about the pictures, he knew that, but he missed it. That was bad, he did that a lot lately. It was like he checked out, listening to his own thoughts and not what was going on around him. And then he wondered what she would think, that he missed the question, that he couldn't pay attention, it was all proof, if it were needed, that he should be here.

"What?" he said.

"Do you use digital cameras or the film cameras?" she said, not seeming to mind having to repeat herself. He wondered how fucked up he was in comparison to her other patients. She must have patients in mental hospitals and institutions, people who were so chemically imbalanced that they hardly seemed human. She must have a lot more fucked up patients than him.

"Both. But I guess I like the film cameras better," It wasn't so much that he liked using film better, but he liked the result. It felt more actual, like it wasn't made of the tiniest pixels but the things' actual shadows, caught in color and trapped on the paper, or black and white, giving it the look of something much older. He'd always liked pictures because you could manipulate them, put in what you wanted, take out what shouldn't be there, unlike his life. In his life there was no control. With his photography he was God, deciding what would be, what wouldn't…

"How's school going?" she said, and her gaze was calm, understanding. This didn't fool him. His father could look that way, and he supposed it was comforting to his patients. He'd seen his dad talking to patients, how understanding and compassionate he comes across, and he wondered how many people were just acting like that when their true self was more violent, more reckless.

"School? Okay,"

"Just okay?" she said, letting the question stay in the air, hovering above their heads. Dr. Brown knew how to use silence, and Craig squirmed in it. He shifted his weight, glanced at the glass knick knacks catching the sun on the windowsill.

"Okay, well, science isn't going that great," It never had, not for him. He knew that his father was a doctor, was good in science, and he wondered why he wasn't. He wondered why that analytical frame of mind had not been passed down to him. He liked music, he liked art, photography…things that were fluid and changeable and had bendable rules. Science was too constricting, with its absolutes, its black and whites.

"Why?" Dr. Brown said, and he licked his lips, thinking of his father and how he tried to help him with science.

"I don't know. I just don't like it,"


	18. Chapter 18

It was okay, he'd got through the first session. And he hadn't revealed anything, that seemed important. He waited in the small waiting area for Joey to pick him up, looking at the magazines with crumpled covers and oddly scary fashion models glaring at him from their covers. The women kind of reminded him of tigers with their weird blue eyes and dark make-up. He blinked, and his eyes felt dry and scratchy. He cleared his throat, wished Joey would hurry up.

He arrived, smiling his cautious, tight little smile at him and Craig smiled back. In the car Joey asked how it went.

"Okay," Craig answered, tugging on his seatbelt, gazing out the window as the glass and concrete office buildings flew by. It was okay. He didn't want to go back.

At home he forced himself to eat supper, all of it, and then maybe Joey would see that he really was fine and didn't need to go and see a shrink. He wasn't hungry, his stomach felt like a tight little ball inside of his body, but he forced the food down mouthful by mouthful, and he forced himself to smile and talk and seem normal. He would force himself to be normal if he had to.

Joey, for his part, wasn't fooled. He knew therapy of this sort would be difficult for Craig, and he felt bad about it but it was necessary, he thought. Like surgery. He watched Angie push her food around the plate and he watched Craig force himself to eat, almost painfully swallowing his food. He was still underweight.

Craig escaped to his room as soon as he could, he couldn't take trying to pretend anymore tonight. It was exhausting. In his room he shut the door and put on music and laid on his bed and tried to forget everything. He was so tired of thinking about himself. He wished that he could be somebody else, just for one day.

Little knock at the door and Craig rolled his eyes and groaned. It would be Joey and he'd want to talk to him and he just wanted to be left alone. He buried his head under the pillow for a moment and heard the little knock again.

"Come in," he said, sighing, and sitting up.

"Hey," Joey said, hanging in the doorway. Craig looked up at him, trying to hold onto the idea that he could be normal. He could act normal and think normally, and he balled his hands into fists with the concentration it was taking.

"Hey," he said, his voice wan.

"I know it was a rough day, huh?" Joey said, and Craig nodded, feeling absurdly like he was going to cry. 'Go away, Joey, go away,' he thought frantically. Joey ignored his silent pleas and instead came in and sat on his bed. Almost involuntarily Craig shrunk away.

"Listen, it'll probably be a little rough at first, it's normal," Joey said, his voice warm and understanding and Craig couldn't take it anymore. It was either cry or explode. He jerked away from him and stood up fast.

"Yeah, Joey, I'm so damaged, I know. But look, can you just leave me alone for awhile? I can't, I can't take this," Despite his best stab at anger the tears came anyway, and he thought of that time he was trapped on his bed and the way the moonlight would come through that window, and how he'd stare at that and try to ignore everything else that was going on. How old had he been then? 12? 13? He could barely remember. He covered his face with both hands as the sobs racked him, a sudden storm of sobbing that he couldn't stop or control.

Joey sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him, not sure of what to do. He didn't know if he should leave or stay, try to comfort him or just let him be. No course of action seemed to be the right one. There was no manual for this.


End file.
